


monstrous and ordinary

by majesdane



Category: Motherland: Fort Salem (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Backstory, Bittersweet Ending, Canonical Character Death, During Canon, F/F, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25007395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesdane/pseuds/majesdane
Summary: She hasn't quite decided if she prefers the tragic or monstrous version of herself. Why can't she be both?|  An exploration of Scylla Ramshorn's past, from childhood to the Bellweather wedding.
Relationships: Porter & Scylla Ramshorn, Raelle Collar/Scylla Ramshorn, Scylla Ramshorn/Original Female Character
Comments: 42
Kudos: 242





	monstrous and ordinary

lovely-eyed. death-touched. witch.  
— odysseus elytis, "the dream"

she stood there: she listened. she heard the names of the stars.  
— _mrs dalloway_ , virginia woolf

* * *

There's a thing about names.

Scylla remembers reading it somewhere, once, piled into the backseat of the worn-down, nondescript car that her parents had managed to _suggest_ a civilian give to them.

_Names are important._

It's a strange thing to be thinking about as she's chained to a chair somewhere beneath what she assumes is Alder's private building, half-delirious from exhaustion, achingly sore, her throat chafing from the silencer collar sitting tight around her neck. 

Her own name is Greek, and mythological in scale. She likes how there's no one definitive story for her namesake. It reminds her of herself; the half-truths, the tug of war between romanticism and cynicism. She supposes that her whole life so far has been defined by the lens people chose to see it through, though she herself hasn't quite decided if she prefers the tragic or monstrous version of herself.

Well, why can't she be both?

*

She isn't sure exactly when she realizes that her family is different from most others, even among witches. The knowledge filters through slowly over time, like water percolating through earth.

They never stay in one place for too long — rarely longer than a year. They swap out pieces of their lives like interchangeable parts: a different state, a different car, different names. There's a name for families like hers: Dodgers. Scylla learns that word at age six. 

It's the same day she learns what happens to Dodgers. Hiding across the street with her parents, her mother's silencing Work burning her throat, she watches a family get dragged from their home by women dressed in imposing black uniforms trimmed with blood-red cuffs and stripes. Military Police. 

She watches the adults kneeling in the driveway, thinking about how just last evening they'd all had dinner together. Playing outside in the backyard later, one of the men had picked her up and spun her around until she was dizzy and laughing. Now they're bloody and bruised, heads bowed. And then —

She closes her eyes. She doesn't see. She doesn't want to watch. 

Her parents drive for three days straight then, until they get to the coast. When Scylla sleeps, curled up under her parents' jackets for warmth, it's just red, red, red, until she jerks awake, sweaty and crying. 

*

By the time she's eleven, she's lost count of the number of stories she's had to tell to explain away this or that part of her life to curious classmates. 

Most of her life is spent surrounded by civilians. That in itself isn't entirely inordinary, but what _is_ is having to pretend to be one. She hides her mark under plain, unassuming civilian clothing. Her parents teach her to _only_ use Work when it's absolutely necessary.

"Sometimes there's no other way," her mother explains. "But civilians are easily suspicious; rely on Work too much and they'll figure it out eventually. And when that happens," she lowers her voice, looking Scylla dead in the eye, "that's when you have to run. Because the Military Police will be close behind."

Her mother grimaces then, as if recalling a painful memory. Scylla wants to ask, but something in her keeps her from doing so. 

Scylla doesn't envy civilians — she'd never want to be so weak, so _boring_ — but there's a tiny part of her that longs for what they have. Simple, stagnant lives, with permanent homes and easy friendships. They don't know what it's like to always be on the move. Running ceaselessly towards a safe haven that doesn't exist.

All Scylla knows of the military is what she hears via the media — _propaganda_ , her parents sneer when General Sarah Alder's newest great accomplishment graces the front of a newspaper, or during the evening news on television. 

_And how many witch lives were lost in that battle?_

_How much blood was shed for those who'd gladly burn and hang us at a moment's hysteria?_

Scylla looks at the photos of Alder: her square jaw and defiant eyes, shoulders thrown back in a proud stance. Sarah Alder, the witch who changed everything. The reason Scylla's never had a normal life. Scylla feels a kind of vague, directionless anger. She doesn't understand why in all these years Alder's never used her great power to change things. 

She asks her father.

"Other witches have certainly tried to persuade her," he says, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his temple with a tired sigh.

It's the first time Scylla learns about the Spree. Witches who oppose the military and Sarah Alder's iron grip. They've been growing steadily in numbers for a while now, but they're still considered a fringe group. 

"They're not like us," her father explains. "Our beliefs are similar, yes. But we want different things."

Scylla frowns, considering this. "I don't understand."

Her father smiles gently and ruffles her hair, cut short for the summer, falling just below her chin. "It's nothing for you to worry about, kiddo."

But Scylla's stubborn. " _Tell_ me."

*

Madison Costley.

Doe-eyed, with chestnut-colored hair. _Tall_. Varsity track.

And she also sits exactly one row and two seats to the right ahead of Scylla in their fifth period Biology class. Scylla spends a lot of time staring at the back of Madison's head, daydreaming about running her fingers through Madison's long, wavy hair. She imagines the softness of it. It probably smells like fancy floral shampoo and hair products. 

At fifteen, Scylla's already had lots of crushes. But none quite so bad as this one. They've said perhaps a dozen words to each other since the start of the school year — if even that. And that's only because their lockers happen to be right next to each other. 

Scylla's perfectly content to let her crush remain unknown and unrequited. For starters, she knows it's only a matter of time before her parents decide it's not safe for them to stay in Pittsburgh any longer. Second of all, she's fairly certain Madison barely knows she exists.

And then, one day in April, Madison's standing at Scylla's desk.

"Hey," she says, and Scylla's so startled she nearly drops her book. "You're acing this class, right?"

Scylla nods dumbly. It's true; growing up with Necro parents has made this particular subject easy for her. "I'm doing alright."

"Midterms are coming up in two weeks," Madison explains, easing herself into the empty desk next to Scylla. "And if I don't do well on this exam, my parents might actually kill me." She laughs. "Would you mind helping me study? I can pay you, if you'd like," she adds, after a moment, mistaking Scylla's hesitation for disinterest.

Truthfully, Scylla's still trying to process the fact that Madison even knows her _name_ , let alone has come to her asking for help. She's gotten accustomed to flying under the radar at school; she's not used to being noticed.

"No," Scylla blurts out quickly, flushing. "I mean, I don't need you to pay me. I'll help; I don't mind."

She thinks about Madison's smile all the way home.

*

Every day for the next week and a half, they meet in the library after classes.

It's the closest thing Scylla's had to friendship since she was a kid, even if they're only hanging out for a few hours to study.

Well, _Madison_ studies. Scylla mostly just helps her run through flashcards when she's not watching Madison over the top of her American history book. Civilian history is boring — and rife with inaccuracies, according to her parents, and Scylla's inclined to believe them. It's much more interesting to take note of the way Madison frowns when she's thinking, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Want to come over to my place today?" Madison asks that Friday after class, tossing her bag over one shoulder. "I figured we could go through everything one last time. And my parents aren't going to be home so we can just . . . hang out, too. If you want." 

Scylla swallows hard, nodding. Her heart's racing ahead of her and she has to force herself to stay calm. "Yeah, sure," Scylla says, hoping she doesn't sound too excited. "That'd be cool."

*

Madison lives only a few blocks away. They walk side-by-side in silence. Scylla's acutely aware of the space between them. She hooks up thumbs into the shoulder straps of her backpack in order to stop obsessing about how their hands almost brushed together a minute earlier. 

This is bad. _She's_ got it bad. She tries to remind herself that Madison barely knows her. She has no idea who Scylla really is. A witch. A Dodger. And Madison's a civilian — Scylla remembers her parents' constant warnings to always be wary of civilians. To avoid getting attached to them. But Madison is pretty and kind. She treats Scylla like they've been friends for a long, long time. She doesn't act like any of the civilians her parents have cautioned her against at all.

"So," Madison drawls, when they're finally in her bedroom.

The walls are covered with photos of indie bands Scylla's never heard of. There's two milk cartons full of vinyls stacked haphazardly on top of each other in one corner. 

"I kind of lied," Madison says.

Scylla, in the midst of dropping her backpack on the floor, freezes. "What?"

"It's nothing bad, I promise," Madison says with a laugh. "It's just, I didn't ask you to come over so that we could study. You know?"

She moves in closer. Almost close enough to touch. Scylla's heart is pounding so hard in her chest she's certain Madison can hear it. 

Madison reaches out and touches Scylla's face very, very lightly. "You're cute," she tells Scylla. "And you're smart. And weirdly funny." She pauses, cocking her head and studying Scylla's face with an amused grin. "You really didn't notice I've been flirting with you these past couple of days?"

Scylla shakes her head dumbly. "I just —" she starts to say, just as she's cut off by Madison leaning in and pressing their mouths together.

How easy it all is, kissing Madison. Madison kissing her back. She always thought something like this couldn't be so easy, so simple. But it's happening right now and the world hasn't stopped on its axis. After a moment's hesitation, Scylla deepens the kiss, one hand tentatively settling on Madison's waist. When they finally break apart, it feels like they've been kissing forever. Madison reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind Scylla's ear, grinning. 

Scylla's heart flutters like a trapped bird.

"How long now have you been wanting me to do that?" Madison asks.

Scylla flushes, looking away, embarrassed at the idea of her longing being so openly visible. 

Madison laughs and tugs Scylla in closer. "It's okay," she says against Scylla's lips. "I've been wanting it too."

And then she kisses Scylla again and Scylla's brain goes a bit fuzzy. She can't believe this is actually happening. She puts her hands on Madison's shoulders and pulls Madison closer to her. Madison hums her approval and pushes them both down onto the bed. 

She giggles as Madison inches her shirt up, kissing each new exposed stretch of skin as she goes. Scylla can feel her smile with every tiny kiss. She's got her hands in Madison's hair, feeling blissfully warm from head to toe. She closes her eyes, tipping her head back on the pillows, letting herself fall completely into the moment.

So much so that she forgets one very important detail.

"Huh," Madison says suddenly, pausing in her kisses. "That's an interesting birthmark."

It takes Scylla's mind a moment to register what's happening. When her eyes snap open, Madison is staring at her intently. Staring at Scylla's witch mark, just below her right breast. 

Scylla watches a spark of understanding catch and grow brighter in Madison's eyes, like wildfire. 

"Wait," Madison says, very slowly and deliberately. "Isn't that — "

(oh.)

(oh, no.)

Scylla tugs her shirt down quickly. "I can explain." She scrambles off the bed, her heart racing again, though this time for all the wrong reasons. Her stomach knots itself into a ball of dread. "Yes, it's what you think," she says in a rush, wringing her hands nervously. "My family — we're witches."

Madison eyes her, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and — the knot in Scylla's stomach tightens — suspicion. "You never said anything. You always acted like you were . . . one of us." Madison's gaze narrows. "You _lied_ to us."

"It's complicated."

"Why aren't your parents serving in the military?" Madison asks after a moment, and Scylla can see the puzzle pieces slotting together in Madison's mind. "Isn't that the _law_?" There's a coldness to her words that stings. 

Scylla swallows hard, trying to rid herself of the lump in her throat. "It's not what you think."

Madison arches an eyebrow. She slides off the bed and crosses the room to stand in front of Scylla. "And what do I think?"

"I — " Scylla can't find the words. Her tongue feels like lead. 

And then Madison laughs. Scylla's always liked Madison's laugh; a light, lilting thing. But now it sounds twisted and wrong. " _Scylla_." Madison stresses the syllables in the word in a mocking tone. "I should have guessed, with a name like that," she sneers. "Witches and their strange names."

Scylla's face burns hot with shame. But there's something else sparking in her now too. Anger. And, if not _hate_ , something very close to it. Any affection she felt for Madison before is gone now, dissolved in an instant. 

"Do you think I like it?" Scylla asks through gritted teeth. "Pretending to be a civilian? We have to hide because of _you_. Civilians." Her hands are balled into fists so tight that she can feel her nails digging into her skin deep enough to leave crescent-moon shaped welts. "You have it so easy and you're too stupid to even realize it."

Madison takes a step back. She's caught off-guard by Scylla's rage. Her expression flickers and for a split second, Scylla's certain she can see a hint of _fear_. It's strange, to be looked at like that — but it's satisfying, too. Scylla feels a sudden rush of wild glee. 

But then she realizes what started all of this: Madison's discovered her true identity. Scylla thinks of all of her parents' warnings over the years. _When civilians realize the truth, the Military Police are never far behind._

And she knows in that moment what she has to do. 

"Forget everything," she says, her voice reverberating, changing the air. She's never used Work on a civilian before, but it comes to her as naturally as breathing. "We never had this conversation. You only ever wanted to study by yourself."

She leaves Madison there, blank-faced, blinking slowly as she returns to her senses.

*

She fights her tears all the way home. 

Her mother, standing at the sink, paused in the middle of drying a cup. "Scylla? What's wrong?"

Scylla tries to swallow down her sobs, but they bubble up anyway. She puts her face in her hands, mostly embarrassed, but a little scared, too. Once she says it out loud, she knows what will happen. What's always happened every time someone's gotten a little too close. 

"I messed up," she whispers.

*

"It's okay," her parents assure her, with soft caresses and soothing words. "It isn't your fault. We would have had to leave soon anyway."

Scylla knows they're right.

It doesn't make her feel any better.

She's angry at herself for letting her guard down. And she knows she's lucky — in another time or place, a mistake like that might have sent her to the gallows. But now the truth is laid bare, plain and undeniable: civilians can't be trusted. No matter what. In the end, they always turn on witches. It's a bitter pill to swallow, but she's glad she's been forced to choke it down now. Better sooner rather than later. 

When Scylla closes her eyes, she can see the look on Madison's face. Her eyes dark, accusatory. The way her words were tinged with fear. The way she _looked_ at Scylla. As if Scylla was a complete stranger and not a girl she'd pinned to the bed and kissed until they were both breathless and giddy.

A week later, spring arrives in full bloom.

They head west.

*

They hit the edge of the Cession by May.

Moving through the Cession is easy. The Army's shadow, though still present, doesn't fall quite so heavily over this part of the country. 

Still, it's always a good idea to keep moving, at least in small bursts. Unpredictability makes it harder for them to be tracked down. Along the way, they follow clues left behind by other Dodgers; Scylla's parents taught her long ago how to read their sigils for information. Usually it's just a list of safe places to travel through: anti-military towns where people are more than willing to turn a blind eye — even to Spree cells.

Spring melts into summer. Scylla turns sixteen. Her parents take her out for ice cream, and as their cones melt in the heat, Scylla's mother teaches her non-canon Work to control temperature. It's old Work that one of Scylla's great-grandmothers learned when she was stationed in Europe, long before Scylla was born. A lifetime before Scylla's mother, eighteen and burning with defiance and disillusionment, chose not to say the words. 

Scylla likes the way the words feel on her tongue, heavy and guttural. Forbidden.

Soon enough, it's August. 

Scylla isn't particularly thrilled about starting school again, but her parents insist. Scylla's overheard her parents talking; she knows how much they want to stay put for a while. They've settled in a small rural area near the Cession border, close to the Virginia-Mississippi state line. Scylla's overheard her parents talking; she knows how tired they are, how much they want to just stay put for a while. She can't blame them.

There's a few other Dodger families scattered around. Most of them have kids too, but they're all much younger than Scylla. All but one, that is.

"Hi," the boy says, awkwardly jabbing his hand out at her. He's got dusty blonde hair and pale blue eyes. Not half-bad looking. Cute, almost. "I'm Porter."

*

Spending time with Porter is nice. It's been over a year now since Scylla's interacted with any other witches besides her parents, and she can't even remember the last time she's ever even talked to another witch around her age.

Porter's a year younger than her, fifteen and lanky. Sweetly earnest. He and Scylla swap stories about the different places they've been growing up. All the lives that they've led. It's gratifying to be able to talk to someone who's also grown up in a Dodger family. Porter understands — everything Scylla's ever felt, he's felt it too. 

The only thing she doesn't mention is Pittsburgh. Scylla still feels a deep flare of shame whenever she thinks about what happened there. 

"Do you ever wish that your parents weren't Dodgers?" Porter asks, once.

They're sitting on a grassy hilltop, watching a herd of cattle from a nearby ranch graze along the valley below. School starts in a week; Scylla's parents have already enrolled her, having managed to get a hold of new identification papers through one of the other Dodger families in town. They've gotten themselves retail jobs at the grocery store a town over. Jobs like those help them fly under the radar; no one finds it suspicious when suddenly they quit. 

Scylla isn't looking forward to school in the slightest. The learning part she likes — even civilian history. It's the idea of having to go back to _hiding_ that fills her with sluggish dread. She's enjoyed her lazy summer of roaming around the Cession and learning new Work. No responsibilities. No civilians. Even the nagging, abstract terror of the Military Police catching them has faded in the summer sun. 

She picks at a tear in the canvas of her beat-up Converse high tops. "Why would I?"

Porter shrugs. "I don't know." A long pause follows. Then, "I just think, sometimes, it might be nice to not always have to be on the run. To be a part of a community, you know?"

Scylla scoffs. "What, you mean the military?"

"It might not be so bad."

"Easy for _you_ to say," Scylla tells him, rolling her eyes. "You'd be nice and safe on the homefront making weapons and raising fosterlings." She jumps to her feet, suddenly irritated. "Do you know how many of my foremothers died in battle? How many of _yours_ did? Should I just throw my name into the pile, too?"

Porter climbs to his feet. "Hey," he says, holding out his hands plaintively. "That's not what I meant. You know I hate the military too."

 _But not as much as I do_ , Scylla thinks. She almost says it. Instead, she tempers her irritation. "I get it. Really. But you can't dismiss the sacrifice our parents made for us."

"I'm not," Porter says, softer now. He takes a step forward, bridging the gap between them. 

Scylla looks at him. His expression is so open, so earnest. She's never told him about what she saw the Military Police do when she was six. She hasn't opened up about Pittsburgh, either. There's a lot of things she hasn't shared. Those kinds of things feel too ugly, too raw to tell anyone else about. Scylla can't blame him for not understanding her anger. 

Porter reaches out and touches her cheek. For a moment, Scylla remembers Madison's touch, her gentle fingers stroking along Scylla's jawline, and she has to fight the urge to jerk away. 

And then he leans down and kisses her. 

*

It's a strange feeling, being with someone. Spending all your time with them. Kissing someone.

Scylla feels a little guilty; she knows innately that Porter likes her much more than she likes him. It's not that Porter's bad. Quite the opposite. He's nice and he listens to her. And he _knows_ her, too — or at least knows more about her than anyone else besides Scylla's parents.

But she doesn't feel that _spark_ , that rush with him, only a kind of warm affection. 

Maybe that's good enough for now.

*

It's Porter's idea to go to the party.

"Seriously," he says, kissing Scylla's temple through her hair. "You've never been to a civilian party before?"

They're curled up in the bed of his pick-up truck. It's rusted and the seats are threadbare, but it does a good enough job of getting them to and from school and around the Cession. He doesn't have a license, but that's hardly an issue when either of them could simply _convince_ a civilian otherwise. Not like many people around here would bother to ask anyway, though. 

"I don't see what the fuss is," Scylla grumbles. "What's even the point?"

"If you're going to pretend to be a civvie, shouldn't you at least have a little fun doing it?"

Which is how she's ended up here, swaying through the downtown streets in a Virginia town just over the Cession border, nursing a bottle of lukewarm Corona, monologuing to Porter about how much she hates taking US History classes. Civilians always get everything wrong. They frame witch oppression as a thing of the past. They make it seem like Sarah Alder's some kind of great heroine. The Salem Accord is spoken about with reverence. 

There's only a passing line about Alder's sister. The one they hung. There's barely an allusion to all of the nameless witches whose lives were senselessly sacrificed in the name of American glory — though there's plenty of mentions of Bellweathers, Treefines, and Swythes.

In the town square, there's a giant, weathered poster of Alder plastered to one of the buildings. Sarah Alder stares down at them with blank, black eyes. The words _Answer the Call!_ are ribboned in black and red letters underneath her.

It makes Scylla think of the Military Police uniforms. Her gut wrenches; for a second she's thrown back to that day a decade earlier, covering her ears as the men cry out in pain.

"Fuck Sarah Alder," Scylla says loudly. She chucks her empty bottle at the wall, laughing as it smashes against the bricks, sending tiny bits of glass flying. 

Porter reaches for her quickly. "Scylla," Porter admonishes, in that annoying, self-important tone of tone Scylla hates. His eyes dart around nervously. "Lower your voice. You're drunk."

She shrugs him off. "Whatever," she says sulkily. She _is_ drunk. But she also doesn't care if anyone hears her right now. She's so angry and tired. She kicks at a can that someone's left sitting on the curb, watching it skitter down the sidewalk. 

"Come on," Porter jerks his head in the direction of the municipal lot across the street where they'd parked the truck. "Let's get you home."

*

Scylla's parents let her mope around the house hungover until afternoon, at which point her father sighs and fixes her. 

"Quite the night, huh?" he asks, giving Scylla a loose hug.

He smells like soap and pinewood aftershave. Scylla buries her face in his shoulder, thankful her head is no longer pounding and it doesn't feel like she's going to throw up any second. The party was mostly boring; just a bunch of teenagers from the nearby high schools hanging out in an abandoned warehouse, music blaring over a hastily assembled sound system.

Porter nagged her until she gave in and agreed to dance with him. They were hardly the only couple there, but it felt as though everyone was staring at them. Scylla had never spent so much time around civilians outside of school in her whole life. 

The alcohol was nice, though. Even if after her fourth shot, Porter had grabbed Scylla's elbow and pulled her aside. "You might wanna slow down."

But he didn't mind it so much when she pushed him further into the shadows and kissed him until they were both breathless and panting. 

Scylla untangles herself from her dad's grasp. "Thanks, Dad." She clears her throat. "I . . . It won't happen again."

Her dad laughs at that. It's been a long time since Scylla's heard her dad laugh like this; full-throated, from his belly. It makes her smile. She hugs him again. 

"Just be careful, okay, kiddo?" he asks, and tousles her hair, like he used to when she was a kid.

*

School starts four days later.

She's put into AP Biology. It's all seniors except for her. Not that Scylla minds; being new, she doesn't know anyone anyway.

Well, no one besides Porter, who Scylla studiously avoids in the hallways. It's one thing for them to be seen together in the dark, drunken haze of a party. It's an entirely different thing having people see them together while at school. Porter tries to rationalize that no one will suspect anything if they see them together, but Scylla's been burned once already by letting her guard down. She's never going to let that happen again.

At home, or out in the fields behind the row of Cession houses that make up their street, they can be together as much as they like. 

"Hey," Porter says, nuzzling her neck. "What are you thinking about?"

They're in his room, meant to be doing homework, but they've spent the last hour making out. The windows are thrown open, filling the room with the smell of freshly cut grass and charcoal from someone grilling down the road. It's mid-September, but the hot Cession air makes Scylla forget for a moment it's not still summer; she's so used to New England weather.

Scylla's thinking about how she really needs to get started on her Calculus homework. She's awful with math. She's thinking about Porter's hand, resting on her thigh. The idea of it sliding inward floods her belly with immediate, hot desire. She's never had sex before. But right here and now, her body is thrumming from kisses and Porter's lingering touches, and she suddenly _really_ wants to. When he brings his mouth up to kiss her again, she pulls him roughly, needing him closer. His hands slide under her shirt.

She doesn't let herself think about anything after that.

*

"I love you," Porter says, quietly, panting.

Scylla turns her head; she can't look at him.

He lines a trail of kisses up to the little space of skin behind her ear, while her heartbeat slows from its gallop and her breathing returns to normal. Now, in the aftermath, she doesn't like the weight and press of his body against hers. Outside, a car noisily passes by, muffler rattling. A dog barks in the distance. The curtains rustle in the breeze and she can feel the sweat on her skin cooling. 

This was a mistake. She let herself get caught up in the moment. 

She's already thinking about how quickly she can leave without making it weird, as Porter rolls off her with a contented sigh, flopping onto his back. When she chances a look at him, Porter's leaning up on his elbow, watching her, an expectant expression on his face. She knows what he's waiting for. But she can't say it. She can't give voice to a feeling that doesn't exist. 

Scylla's told many, many lies before. But none borne of cruelty — and this would be cruel. She _does_ care about him. She won't deny that. But it's not love. As close as they've grown, it's only been a few months. How can she be expected to feel so strongly after so little time? 

She counts to ten in her head before murmuring a quiet, "I have to go," climbing out of bed and reaching for her clothes. She steps into her jeans like it's no big deal at all, doesn't even turn away from him as she fixes her bra back on and buttons up her shirt. 

The late afternoon light is coming in through his bedroom window and she thinks for a moment that she might just stay. But she can feel Porter _looking_ at her still, and she knows if she stays now, it'll just make everything much too complicated.

She steps across the room to give him a quick kiss. He deserves that much at least, she thinks. Especially since tomorrow she'll have to stomp all over his heart by explaining she doesn't feel the same.

"See you tomorrow?" Porter asks.

"Yeah," Scylla says. "Of course."

His hopeful little smile makes her feel guilty. 

*

It's a perfectly ordinary morning. Until it isn't.

They're coming back home after having gone out for breakfast. It's become sort of a Saturday morning tradition, walking the few blocks over to the tiny diner that her parents are enamoured with. It's always crowded except for in the early morning when they only have to share the place with the elderly regulars who come mostly to drink coffee and gossip. Scylla doesn't particularly enjoy waking up so early, but she relishes the moments of normalcy she gets to spend with her parents, even if only for a few hours. 

Scylla's laughing at a stupid joke her father's just told when suddenly her parents stop mid-step. Scylla follows their gaze to the sleek, black SUVs parked in the driveway in front of their house. Cold realization washes over her like a wave; her blood turns to icy slush in her veins. 

She's always known this day might come, though it's always been more of an abstract thought than a reality to her. She never really believed it would happen. But here she is, standing a few yards from their front door, and it feels like she can't breathe. 

Black SUVs, trimmed with red stripes. _Military Police_ written in large, blocky letters on the side, is punctuated by the Army's insignia. The door to their house is cracked open a few inches. From where she's standing, Scylla can see the dark outline of figures inside waiting for them.

No more running.

No escape.

*

She doesn't want to hide, but her parents compel her too, pushing her towards the garage. There's a little hiding space carved out in one of the walls, glamoured behind a large workbench filled with heavy-looking construction tools. Scylla climbs in, fighting her parents' Work the whole way, muscles straining. She draws her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly.

The walls are thin, but not thin enough. She only hears bits and pieces of what's happening. The Military Police barking orders. Scylla's father, his voice even-keeled, surrendering without a fight. Scylla imagines her parents sinking to their knees, hands folded behind their heads. And then comes another sound, a flat, loud _thud_. A sharp cry of pain. 

Tears spring to Scylla's eyes. She fights the urge to cover her ears. She's already hiding like a coward; the least she can do for her parents is to keep listening. There's another _thud_ , a shout, and the sounds of a scuffle. And then a low-pitched keening sound follows. Scylla's never heard anything like it, but she knows it's a Seed, or a mix of them, layered together. 

After that, it's quiet. 

Outside, the engines of the Military Police's cars roar to life, then slowly fade in the distance. Scylla sits huddled in place, mind dull with fear and confusion. Surely they must have known she was with her parents? Why hadn't anyone come looking for her too? 

Deep inside of her heart, cold, terrible knowledge blossoms. She knows why the Military Police didn't bother with her. It wasn't about _her_ parents, specifically. It was about sending a message.  
She doesn't know how long she stays in hiding. When at last she can't stand it any longer, shivering with cold and exhaustion, her bladder aching, she finally forces herself to get out. She climbs to her feet, muscles sore and protesting. 

Scylla's hand lingers on the doorknob to the house. She doesn't have to go inside, she reasons. She can just leave now. Just run around and start walking.

But —

(don't.)

(oh, goddess.)

— she needs to see for herself.

Inside, the silence is deafening. 

She creeps through the house like a thief in the night. She goes upstairs first — the bathroom, then her bedroom. Scylla stuffs a few clothes into her backpack; she has no idea what else she should take with her. On her nightstand is a photo of her parents. She slips it out of its flimsy faux-wood frame, folding it into squares and tucking it into her wallet. 

Her tiny bedroom suddenly seems foreign to her. The stack of textbooks on her desk, one of her notebooks lying open, filled with meticulously highlighted notes. A pile of CDs she'd bought for a few dollars last month at a yardsale. She feels detached and weightless looking at them. It all seems so pointless now. 

Downstairs, the living room looms ominously.

She tries unsuccessfully to swallow the sharp stone of dread that's gotten lodged in her throat.

And then she sees them.

*

She does the only thing she knows how to do — she runs.

*

She heads southwest, deeper into the Cession. She doesn't have any idea where to go or what to do next. Maybe she should have gone to Porter and his family. But the thought of having to tell anyone what just happened makes her want to throw up. And the last thing she wants right now is pity.

Besides, she rationalizes. It's better this way. The Military Police might still be watching her. It's safer for everyone for her to just leave without a word.

All that occupies her mind is the singular thought to _keep moving_ , to put as much distance between her and the bodies as she can.

Her parents' bodies.

Lying still and cold on the floor. They looked so small. It was like looking down at them from a great height. 

Her legs seem to move of their own accord, grief and adrenaline pushing her forward as she cuts through back alleys and skirts through backyards until she hits the open road. She hasn't even cried yet, though her throat and eyes burn. If she starts crying now, she's not sure if she'll ever stop. 

She walks for a whole day without rest, until finally collapsing behind a strip mall, exhausted. She's thirsty and hungry and her head hurts something awful. She has no idea where she is. She curls up into herself in a dark corner, shivering. Even in the Cession, it gets cool when evening falls. She's grateful she thought to bring along her favorite jacket. A heavy, canvas thing, made for long winter nights. 

It was her mother's, once. It still smells like her.

She can't breathe.

Her tears fall, unbidden.

*

At some point she must fall asleep, because the next thing she knows, it's morning. She's startled to alertness by the sounds of a truck's brakes squealing loudly in the parking lot. Her stomach growls; she's painfully hungry. Her mouth feels like it's been stuffed with cotton.

It's still early, the sun only having just begun to peak over the hills. Scylla glances at her watch: seven o'clock. Hopefully still early enough to find something to eat. She didn't think to bring any money with her when she left, which means she'll have to use Work to get away without paying.

The first place she comes across is a little convenience store that has clearly seen better days. But there's only one other person in there — a middle-aged blonde woman getting coffee — and Scylla decides it's her best chance. She grabs a blank lottery ticket as she threads her way through the aisles, grabbing what she can. 

When the cashier rings her up, she hands him the blank ticket.

"This should do it," Scylla says cheerfully, with a wide, fake smile, feeling the air flex and shift around her words. There's always something oddly satisfying about using compulsion Work. It's harder to use on another witch, but civilians are weak-willed and easily persuaded. It takes hardly any effort at all.

He looks at it for a minute with vague confusion, then shoves it into the cash register along with the rest of the bills, sending her on her way with a nod and a _have a good day, ma'am_.

She's sitting across the street on the curb picking through her stolen goods, tucking away some things into her bag for later when a loud _hey!_ catches her attention. It's the woman from the shop, coffee in hand. She's walking in Scylla's direction.

Scylla tenses. She shoves everything into her bag, scrambling to her feet. She's a wild animal, ready to bolt. 

"Hello," she calls back warily. "Can I help you?"

The woman's got on typical Cession clothes, worn out jeans and a cuffed plaid shirt. A local, then. Scylla doesn't want to have to do Work on another civilian so soon, but she will if she has to. As the woman gets closer, however, Scylla notices the braids adorning the woman's hair, which has been pulled back into a ponytail. Civilians don't typically wear braids outside of Conscription Day celebrations or the Gallows Hill day pageant. 

And today is neither, which means —

"Sorry," the woman says. Standing in front of Scylla, she offers a kind smile. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't," Scylla lies, hoping the slight tremble in her voice doesn't give her away. "What do you want?"

The woman glances around. She moves in closer to Scylla, touching Scylla's elbow. "I saw what you did in there."

Scylla's heart is in her throat. "Are you going to report me?"

The woman shakes her head. "No. I assume you had your reasons. Though you should be more careful in the future." She pauses. Scylla can feel herself being assessed by the woman's gaze. She's about to pull away when the woman adds, "You're a Dodger, aren't you?"

 _Oh_ , Scylla thinks. _Well, that's unexpected._ She really should know better than to nod in response. But she does anyway. Something in her says this woman can be trusted. Besides, her hunger and exhaustion has gnawed her caution down to the very bone, and she's got nothing to lose at this point.

"You look a little young to be a Dodger all on your own. Where's your family?"

Fresh tears spring to Scylla's eyes at the question. She can't bring herself to voice the words, but she's certain the look on her face is enough of an answer. 

The woman sighs. She looks tired. Scylla knows that feeling all too well.

"What's your name?" 

Scylla stays silent. Even if she's willing to trust this woman, she's not stupid enough to start giving out information like that to some stranger. Names have power.

(names are important.)

"Alright, I get it," the woman chuckles. The kind smile is back. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But if you'll be willing to trust me, I can take you somewhere safe." She eyes Scylla's backpack pointedly. "Somewhere you won't have to worry about stealing food."

Scylla bites her lip, turning this new offer over in her mind. 

"I'm sure you have a lot of questions. But I promise you'll be safe. And I'll explain everything to you on the way." She glances around once more and then, in a lowered voice, says, "It's not just Dodgers who hate the military, you know."

Understanding floods Scylla's mind. She nods again. 

"Come on." The woman turns, beckoning Scylla to follow.

"Hey," Scylla asks, as they begin walking. "What's _your_ name?"

*

Everything changes. It always does — how could it not?

The woman — Willa — takes her to a house a little ways from where they met. Willa informs her that it's occasionally used as a safehouse, but right now it's empty. Which is perfect for Scylla, because she still doesn't think she's up to having to deal with anyone else. It's nice having an actual bed to sleep in though.

She takes a long, long shower, letting herself get lost in the heat and steam. Her mind drifts to Porter; she wonders what he's doing right now. She imagines him going looking for her when they don't meet as planned that afternoon. He would have found her parents. He probably would have gone looking for her too, not realizing that she was long gone. 

_It's better this way_ , Scylla reassures herself. Porter will forget about her soon enough. He's a Dodger too; he knows how quickly people can disappear. They'll never see each other again. Scylla feels a tiny pang of sadness at the thought. Despite her own feelings, Porter had loved her. Even if only for a little while, she had felt less alone. 

For one week she stays in the house by herself.

She has nothing now but time. Mostly she just sleeps. Except for that one night out in the cold, she's barely let herself cry yet. She knows at some point she'll no longer be able to hold everything in, but for now, she just wants to forget for a little while. 

When she runs out of clean clothes, Willa brings her more.

"These are my daughter's," she says, handing Scylla a small stack of neatly folded clothes. "She's a scrawny little thing, but she likes to wear everything big. These should fit you."

Willa never speaks about her own family outside of a passing remark here or there in conversation. Scylla would like to ask, but she understands the need for relative anonymity. It's best if neither of them knows too much about the other. She only gives Willa the briefest of rundowns: that her parents were Dodgers who were killed by the Military Police. How she ran away without a plan. Willa listens silently, taking it all in.

"We're heading out tomorrow," Willa says finally, one day. 

"Where are we going?"

"Lynn," Willa tells her. "In Massachusetts."

"Right next to Fort Salem."

Scylla's been through there before. When she was little, around eight years old, her family spent a week with another Dodger family on a beach in Marblehead. It's the safest place Scylla's ever been. Which is ironic, considering its proximity to some of the oldest and most powerful High Atlantics.

Evidently the Spree are of the same mindset. Lynn is the last place the Army would think to look for a Spree safe house; they'd never suspect the enemy to be hiding right under their noses. And besides that, it's a lot easier to ditch and run when you're near a city with millions of people to get lost among. 

Willa explains as she cooks Scylla dinner. Scylla's mostly been eating whatever she can microwave, with various success, but Willa's insisted she have a proper meal tonight.

"I'll only be able to stay there a day with you," she says, handing Scylla a knife to help chop vegetables. "The Army's shipping me out on another mission after that. Not sure how long I'll be gone for, but there's good people in Lynn. They'll take care of you until I come back."

Scylla considers this. "What will I do when I'm there?"

"It depends. Probably just small jobs — the odd errand or two. You'll learn new Work. Get to know the way the Spree operates. There's a few cells around Boston that operate in tandem. Ours included."

Something about the way Willa says _ours_ makes Scylla feel oddly comforted. 

*

The Spree safe house is nestled in the suburbs, surrounded by lush trees and overgrown shrubs. 

It's only September; the leaves haven't yet begun to change. Scylla's been looking forward to seeing New England autumn colors again after so many years away. Her parents always used to take her on long weekend drives through New Hampshire. They used to spend so much time hiking through the mountains. Scylla loved being surrounded by endless miles of wilderness. At times it felt like they were the only people left on the planet.

Scylla's given her own room; the attic, remodeled into a little loft space. It's tiny and stuff, but perfect in Scylla's eyes. She values the privacy it'll provide. That evening, she opens up the little corner window and falls asleep to the distant sounds of traffic.

"I was wondering," Scylla starts, as Willa shrugs on her coat the next day, readying to leave. "Why did you join? The Spree, I mean."

Willa's smile is wry. "It's a long story," she says. Her hand lingers briefly on Scylla's shoulder. "I'll tell you some other time."

Maybe if they were different people, they might have hugged goodbye. 

But Scylla's still fragile, and Willa, for all her kindness, is not her mother.

"See you soon," Scylla says, waving.

She doesn't watch Willa leave. She never does. 

*

Being a part of the Spree means being endlessly busy. There's always some message to deliver or supplies to pick up or Work to perfect. Scylla becomes exceedingly familiar with Essex County in short order, going from one place to the next. It makes the days go by quickly.

Scylla's thankful for it; the Spree have given her a new purpose. A sense of stability.

But in the quiet moments, she feels the hollowness of her new life. No matter how hard she tries to push it down, she misses her parents more than she can stand. And then, finally, something _gives_ in her one night, lying in bed unable to sleep, and she cries until she aches. 

Sometimes she thinks maybe she's just dreaming this all. That one day she'll wake up and find herself back in her old house to the sounds of her parents' laughter. She will open her eyes and everything will be how it should be. She imagines her parents smiling, pulling her into a tight hug. She remembers the sensation of her mother's fingers plaiting her hair into small braids; a phantom touch. 

Months pass. 

Nothing changes. 

There are no graves to visit. All that is left of them is a single photograph and her own memories. She can already see them starting to fade in her mind's eye, growing dim with time. She traces her fingers along the ridges of the photograph and feels everything and nothing. She is numb. She is overflowing. 

She feels robbed.

She doesn't know how to handle this sort of sadness. She wants to do nothing but lie down and to sleep until she wakes up and everything is back to normal. Back to the way it should be. She can't stop crying; it takes nothing at all for her eyes to well up with tears. And yet the worst part is that she knows that it's not possible to go on like this forever, that there will be a day when tears don't come so easily. No matter how much it hurts, in the end, everyone is always betrayed by the quiet, inevitable desire to move on.

Scylla thinks, _I want to bleed forever_. She'll never allow the awful, gaping wounds inside her to heal. Not completely. It's all she has now.

"You've come so far already," Willa says kindly, as she brushes Scylla's hair and knots it into a single braid.

A small token of remembrance for Scylla's mother on the anniversary of her parents' deaths. The day they were _murdered_. 

On special occasions, Scylla's mother would always put Scylla's hair up into a waterfall braid. It was a kind of tradition; some lines had High Atlantic ribbons or combat charms. Coming from a long, middling bloodline of Necros, the Ramshorns had this. The sole wartime custom from their foremothers that remained; the only one deemed worthy of being kept.

Scylla's hidden herself up in her room all day, unable to bear the sight of anyone else. She only finally caved and opened the door when Willa'd arrived with dinner. Scylla, ravenous and exhausted from crying, and suddenly craving even the tiniest scrap of affection. 

Willa says, "Your parents would be proud of you."

Willa never knew Scylla's parents; she doesn't know what would make them proud.

But in that moment, Scylla desperately wants to believe Willa's right.

*

A second year passes.

Scylla learns the finer arts of subterfuge; she picks it up quickly, her years of being a Dodger coming in handy. She learns how to set up traps to detect intruders, how to throw someone who's tailing her off her scent. Thanks to the Spree's varied membership, Scylla's able to learn a wide array of Work — all of it non-canon. Most forbidden. Work that's been handed down through generations.

She even learns a little Méníshè, too, from a former Hague correspondence, though her pronunciation is awful. 

With the Spree, she finds new value in interacting with civilians. Now that she's no longer in fear of being hunted down by the Military Police, and there's no one to scold or caution her otherwise, she's left with a kind of loose-limbed confidence in practicing Work on civilians. Her younger self would have never dared to be so brazen as to sneak her way into clubs or bars without ID every weekend, to flirt with a pretty girl or let an over eager boy buy her a drink.

It also helps to dull the pain of loneliness that she can't quite seem to shake. The press of a warm body against hers, someone's mouth on her mouth. She never lets it go as far as she could, though. She's still haunted by the look in Madison's eyes when she saw Scylla's mark.

Scylla will never let another civilian get that close again. Close enough to hurt.

(she'll never let _anyone_.)

*

It's Willa who ultimately talks her into it.

"Fort Salem has its advantages. They have access to training on a level the Spree can't provide. Canon Work is powerful. Use them to get stronger. Learn their secrets and earn their trust."

Scylla frowns. "And then what?"

Willa folds her hands behind her back; an old Army tic Scylla noticed Willa always did when she was trying to appear commanding and stoic. "Impossible to say. You might be tasked with missions. Or maybe we'll end up extracting you before you've finished War College."

The last bit is said without flourish, but Scylla's secretly pleased to see Willa doesn't doubt her aptitude. Of course she'll make it into War College. Even if she has to work twice as hard as she's ever worked. She'll prove she's just as capable as any of the bluest blue-blood military darlings. 

Scylla never thought she'd say the words. 

And yet here she is, standing in her bedroom, reciting the Army's conscription pledge. The words sound so pompous, so phony. But she doesn't falter. 

Her newly minted medal falls into her hand, warm to the touch, and her fingers curl around it instinctively. Guilt needles her. Her parents never answered. They did the honorable thing, always. They were good parents. Kind. Gentle. They didn't want Scylla to end up like so many other daughters.

 _But they died anyway._ The Spree — Willa's — voice in her ear. _They were murdered by the Army for being traitors, slaves to Sarah Alder's will. This is your chance for justice. You can prove their sacrifice was worth it._

"Good girl," Willa says, when Scylla brandishes the medal at her. 

Scylla Ramshorn. Private, 1st Class. 

The next day, she hops on a bus with her rucksack, bound for the one place she's hated her entire life.

*

She's surprised — and somewhat relieved — when she discovers Necros don't take part in Basic. 

Well, not regular Basic, anyway. There's a special course just for them. They'll learn essential defensive and combative Work, but nothing as in-depth as everyone else. It makes sense; during operations, their type of work is more on the back end of things. Gathering intel, facilitating communication between the troops. Hardly a need to engage in combat unless under the more dire of circumstances. 

It's exceedingly rare for a witch to have a talent for Work different from her foremothers, and the Army divides them up right from the start. Necros to one side, everyone else to the other.

Scylla's put in Medea dorm, where all the Necros on base live. There's far less Necros compared to all the other specialties, which means Scylla, like all her fellow cadets, is assigned a single room. It's the biggest bedroom Scylla's ever had, and the morning sunlight pours in through the east facing windows.

Maybe Willa was right when she pointed out Fort Salem wasn't _entirely_ awful.

It's the little things that make life bearable here. 

Scylla takes full advantage of the fort's library. Most of the advanced Work is in an area inaccessible to cadets not in War College, but there's whole rows devoted to witch history. It helps to fill in the gaps of her knowledge. Her parents had been loath to talk about anything related to the military. Willa's equally cagey; Scylla's only ever picked up bits and pieces before.

Her head Necro instructor, Izadora, can be enthusiastic to the point of mania at times. Scylla uses it to her advantage: she prods Izadora as much as she can, asking for extra time in the Necro mausoleum to assist older students. Hands on experience is the best kind, she's learned. And she's practically invisible around them. She eavesdrops on conversations, pocketing information as she goes. Most of it's useless, but she likes to tell herself it's the effort that counts.

When Izadora teaches the class Linking, she cuts the throat of the girl who lives across the hall from Scylla. Scylla watches her classmate choke on her own blood with equal parts fascination and revulsion.

"Linking is an essential skill," Izadora says, pacing in place, ignoring the student, who collapses to her knees, hands around her neck. Blood flows through her fingers like silt. "Necros are mostly background players, but there may come a day when you have to be in the midst of battle with your sisters. You need to know how to save them. It could very well be what keeps both of you from getting killed."

As Izadora demonstrates the technique, horrible, ugly thoughts rise unbidden to the forefront of Scylla's mind. Did her mother know this kind of Work was possible? If so, why hadn't she taught Scylla? Scylla might have been able to save them. She might —

A tug on her Necro coat sleeve startles her out of her thoughts.

"Want to pair up?" Ariadne asks.

She lives a floor below Scylla. She's pretty, with long chestnut hair. Tall. Fairly smart.

Depending on the light, she looks a little like Madison. 

Scylla plasters a fake smile on her face. "Okay."

*

It's Ariadne who she gets paired with at Beltane.

The dance must have a sense of humor, Scylla muses, through a fog of alcohol and lust.

She lies back on the grass, stripped of her dress, as Ariadne trails kisses up her stomach.

*

"You're needed in Middlebury, Vermont," Willa says.

In the almost year Scylla's been at Fort Salem, they've rarely spoken. The less contact, the better. The Army knows Scylla's an orphan; it would look suspicious for her to be making anything more than the occasional phone call to someone outside the base.

Even rarer these days has been any communication outside of mirror messages, so Scylla's more than a little surprised when she comes back to her room that afternoon to a note shoved under her door. The note itself is innocuous; a sigil coded into some of the script. She traces it with her finger.

It's as though Willa's standing right in front of her. Scylla's only seen this Work once before; she's still astonished by it. She's often begged Willa to teach her, but Willa always only smiles slyly and refuses.

The vision of Willa continues, her tone solemn and clipped. "One of the cells there has a mission for you. I don't know the details, only that it's taking place next week on Conscription Day. You'll have to leave the day before. Make yourself available. Arrangements will be made. Your contact there will send details shortly."

Just as quickly as the apparition appeared, it vanishes, leaving Scylla to mull over what she's been told.

It must be something big if it's happening on Conscription Day. Scylla feels a swell of pride at having been chosen. The fact that she's been entrusted with this proves she's valuable to the Spree, no longer just perceived as Willa's sympathy project. 

The photograph of her parents lies tucked away in her safe. She spins the combination lock, pops it open. She touches their faces. The innocent, carefree smiles. She hears Willa's voice in her head: _they would be proud of you_. 

She's certain it must be true.

*

Sometimes at night Scylla will lie down outside, staring up at the dark, expansive sky. She likes to look at the stars, the millions of tiny flickering lights When she was much younger, her parents taught her some of the constellations. Now she knows them all. There's something very Dodger-like about how the constellations change with the precession of the equinoxes; nothing is permanent. 

She lies there for hours, usually, gazing up at star-speckled blackness, all other sounds around her fading into a quiet buzz. The prickly feeling of the grass on her skin. The world, turning slowly beneath her. It feels very overwhelming, the sense of infiniteness, the sense of being something so small against something so big. But there's something calming about it, too.

Drowning in her own unimportance. 

It's exactly what she's thinking as she stands in the middle of the mall, on Conscription Day, surrounded by civilians celebrating yet another year of witches being drafted for slaughter. The mall is awash in patriotism, decked out in red, white, and black from top to bottom: streamers, banners, flags. _Balloons_ — lots of them. Confetti drifts slowly from the rafters like snow.

Scylla's stomach twists in sneering disgust. It's all so very pathetic. They can't even _begin_ to imagine the magnitude of the very thing they're so happily cheering on.

She looks around at all the smiling faces and feels her heart harden further.

All the lives those dead witches might have led, all the things they could have done. The countless masses, cut down in their prime. All of the bloodlines lost to centuries of petty battles. And that's only under the supervision of the _glorious_ General Sarah Alder. Scylla isn't even factoring in those who died before that, hunted to the ends of the earth by the Camarilla or their ilk. Murdered simply for existing. 

Her gaze turns to the glass-paned ceiling, watching as the pale blue balloon floats towards her. Any hesitation she felt before is gone now. Now she feels only hot, righteous anger, tempered only by her ice cold resolve.

She's invisible here, wearing someone else's face. She's just one in a sea of hundreds. No one pays her any mind at all. 

Not when the balloon pops.

Not when the first body hits the ground in a smattering of blood and bone.

Not even then.

*

She drives fast and reckless, her heart racing. She's giddy and light-headed.

It's not until she's halfway back to Salem that reality begins to settle. On the radio, the broadcasters announce the growing death toll. At one point they announce a second Spree attack, in Greenville. The number of dead instantly skyrockets from the hundreds to the thousands.

Scylla grips the steering wheel. _I did that_ , she thinks, with grim satisfaction.

But that isn't right. It wasn't _her_. It was _them_ — everyone complicit in military slavery. They all bear culpability. The blood is on _their_ hands. Isn't that what her parents taught her? What the Spree taught her? She is merely the sharp edge of a knife, not the one who wields it. Her hatred and grief has been transformed into something animal, feral; she can only act in accordance with its nature.

She thinks of that cold, lonely garage. Her limbs aching from hiding in a crouched, cramped position for so long. The forbidding silence of the house as she finally walked through it. Her parents on their backs in the living room, eyes staring glassily up at the ceiling. The crunch of her mother's glasses underfoot. The twin ribbons of blood from their noses, still wet; later she'll scrub the dried blood from under her fingernails. She has to touch them one last time, to remember they existed. She cradles their faces, kisses their foreheads, closes their eyes. 

Every animal will always defend itself when cornered, after all. No matter how domesticated they might seem.

Either that, or die.

*

When she gets back to Medea dorm that evening, there's a photo taped to her mirror.

It's a girl, blonde-haired and bright eyed. The shot is blurry and partially obscured, like it was taken secretly at a distance.

On the back, written in bold black letters, it says:

_Raelle Collar. Find her. Get close. Valuable._

It must be a new cadet set to join Fort Salem tomorrow. Scylla wonders what's so important about this Raelle; she looks perfectly ordinary. Still, there are worse assignments to get. But Scylla's a bit nervous. It's been a while since she's had an actual conversation with anyone who isn't in one of her Necro classes, and polite chatter will hardly get the job done. She's practiced on enough civilians to know how to properly charm people; here's her chance now to put her skills to the test.

Nerves give way to excitement as she studies the photo for a minute longer, already thinking about her first moves. Then, satisfied she'll remember Raelle's face, she flicks her lighter open and sets the picture ablaze. She drops it into her trash can, watching the edges curl and turn to ash. For a moment she thinks of her own face, shimmering with bright flames, and her stomach dips and twists.

All too suddenly, she's thrown back to the mall — the sickening crunch of bones and flesh hitting concrete. The pooling blood — so dark it was nearly black. 

(like when — )

The room spins and for a moment Scylla thinks she's going to be sick.

She stumbles, catches the edge of her desk, gripping it tightly to steady herself. She chokes her nausea back down.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out. 

Breathe in, breathe out. 

There's no sense in thinking about everything that happened this morning. She's back at Fort Salem now, and she has a part to play. The dutiful little soldier. The talented Necro, best in her class; she thinks of Izadora's pleased smile from a month ago, as she'd patted Scylla on the shoulder and told her how proud she was.

"My little protégé," she'd teased, with a wink.

Willa, on the other end of a phone in Boston: "I knew you had it in you, girl. Stay the course. Let them make you strong."

Scylla's worked hard to fit in here, to excel at training despite every fiber of her being screaming at how _wrong_ it all is. Despite all of the lonely nights and the endless hours of learning boring canon Work, over and over again until she can do Seeds in her sleep. She's worked hard because Willa told her to — because it was worth it in the long run, in order to serve the Spree better. So that she'll be ready when the big war finally arrives.

And now she has a new assignment. 

*

Raelle's rebellious, aloof. Oddly charming. And she's got an easy smile that makes Scylla want to smile back. It's disarming. Scylla's temporarily thrown. But then she remembers that she's followed Raelle all the way out to the Storm Range — getting a demerit in the process — for a reason. 

In the end, though, Scylla doesn't have to try very hard at all; right from the start, Scylla can tell that Raelle's _interested_ in her. A few one-liners, a little Salva, and some pointed looks, and Scylla's got Raelle right where she wants her. 

So then, of course, kissing Raelle the next evening is just a natural extension of all that. 

Raelle reacts as Scylla expects; blinking with surprise, blushing a little, staring at Scylla with wide-eyed wonder. But then comes the unexpected part: Raelle steps forward and pulls Scylla in for another kiss. 

This time it's not a kiss of reverent softness, but hunger and eagerness, and Scylla's mind spins because, _oh, alright; this is fast_. Raelle's tongue brushes against her bottom lip and Scylla opens her mouth without a second thought, deepening the kiss. It's then that she realizes how her control of the moment has slipped like water through her fingers. And she doesn't entirely mind.

Kissing Raelle feels _good_. It feels nostalgic; familiar; worn-in. Like remembering the lyrics to a song she hasn't heard in years. 

Raelle pushes Scylla up against a wall, undoing Scylla's belt, thrusting her hand inside Scylla's trousers unceremoniously. 

And —

Scylla's mind clouds over with lust. God, she's _wet_.

She delights in the way Raelle's expression shifts for a second when she feels just how excited Scylla is. Truthfully, Scylla's a little surprised herself. Desire licks across her belly in a white-hot flame and she pushes her hips up into Raelle's seeking hand. She doesn't know the last time she's wanted someone so much. Raelle's fingers move against Scylla, flexing against the cotton of Scylla's underpants, and Scylla moans, half-dazed.

Instead of all the careful, pretty words she had planned, all she can voice is the Spree's stupid code-phrase:

_The way over is under. The way out . . ._

When she comes, it's with Raelle's mouth pressed to hers, her fingers gripping the back of Raelle's head so hard she thinks Raelle might bruise.

*

It can't last.

Scylla knows all too well how easily things fall apart. How quickly things disappear. How one day someone is here, and then they are not. She can't help but be afraid that there is only so much more time left. 

Scylla wants to remember everything; she doesn't want to forget a single second of their cotton-candied daydream of a romance. She's made sure to memorize every curve of Raelle's body. Her hips, her shoulders, the small swell of her breasts. The color of Raelle's eyes. The way she smiles. Her hair, straw-gold. How Raelle looks in her sleep, her face so open and peaceful. The jagged slant of her scar, which Scylla's kissed a hundred times. 

Raelle, who looks at Scylla with such wide-eyed adoration that Scylla thinks she might burst. 

Raelle, who touches Scylla's cheek and calls her beautiful. 

Raelle's voice — every tone and pitch, the Cession accent, the stress of each word and syllable. The way Raelle says Scylla's name. When Raelle cries out softly as they're making love, the sound is one of the most beautiful things Scylla's ever heard. 

She strokes the underside of Raelle's breasts, drags her nails lightly down across the flat plane of Raelle's stomach and even further still. Raelle moans quietly and tips her head back as Scylla kisses her neck and her fingers drift to the inside of Raelle thigh; Raelle parts her legs further to give Scylla better access.

Raelle straining, on the cusp of orgasm — and later, panting and flushed and sweaty, tangling her fingers in Scylla's hair and kissing her with reckless abandon. 

Scylla feels rather breathless herself, as if every part of Raelle is a part of her. Raelle's kisses steal more than just her heart away, but her words and thoughts and the air as well, and she thinks perhaps she's being too poetic, but this is what Raelle does to her. She makes Scylla think of the most beautiful flowery things. 

Lately, when she's sleepy and nestled against Raelle, she can feel her fear being worked loose like a knot. Something in her is starting to give. 

She's become accustomed to the safety of holding everything at arm's length. Caring about something also means allowing yourself to be hurt by it. And she's all too familiar with how easy it is to lose something you believed was yours forever. It's better to be alone, to never let anything — or any _one_ — else in. 

But Raelle does things to her. She makes Scylla want impossible things. No matter how much Scylla tries to keep herself detached, no matter how often she reminds herself that Raelle is her _mission_ above all, her traitorous heart runs wild anyway. 

How could she have let this happen?

*

"It's Beltane next week, isn't it?" Scylla asks, as they recline in her bed one evening after dinner.

Raelle sighs, deep and exaggerated. She's got her head in Scylla's lap, listening as Scylla's reads to her from a worn, paperback copy of a book of old poems. Scylla doesn't even remember where or when she got it, but she's grown oddly attached to it, and occasionally she thumbs through it to reread her favorite lines.

"Please don't remind me," Raelle says. "Tally hasn't shut up about it for _days_. She's beyond excited for all the boys to get here." Raelle makes a face at that last part and Scylla giggles, bopping Raelle's nose fondly.

"But it's Fort Salem _tradition_ ," she says, with mock solemnity, reaching over and setting her book aside on her desk. She leans down to kiss a tiny kiss to the corner of Raelle's mouth. "All first years participate. Even Necros."

"Oh?" Raelle's interest is clearly piqued. She sits up. "Who did you spend Beltane with last year?"

Scylla snorts, shaking her head. "If I tell you, you'll be jealous."

"I won't."

"I don't believe you," Scylla teases with a grin. "But I'll tell you anyway. It was another Necro girl, actually." Off Raelle's quirked eyebrow, she rolls her eyes and adds, "It was a perfectly adequate evening. Very acceptable as far as Beltane standards go. But that's _all_ it was."

Raelle makes a humming sound, toying with her mother's ring, looking pensive. "I don't want to be with anyone else, Scyl," she says, after a moment. "I know that kind of goes against the whole spirit of Beltane, but, well . . . "

Scylla kisses her. "Relax, Private," she soothes, resting their foreheads together. "Participation's different for everyone," she recites, remembering the speech they were given last Beltane. And then, sweeter, "but I appreciate the sentiment, of course."

Their mouths meet for another kiss. 

"Besides," Scylla tells Raelle with a playful flip of her hair, "everyone on base knows you're mine."

Raelle blinks, then her expression turns thoughtful. "Yeah," she says, as if she's suddenly realized something very important. "I am." Her tone is honeyed, sentimental. 

She gazes at Scylla, stroking the inside of Scylla's wrist with her fingers. It sends little sparks of warmth shooting up and down Scylla's arm like firecrackers. Scylla's breath catches; her heart turns over in her chest. 

Raelle's eyes are the kind of blue that make Scylla think of the endless summer skies of that one week at Labor-in-Pain, how she stretched out on the beach, legs splayed, daydreaming in the sun. But Scylla doesn't want to think about the past now, not when the present is so fully in front of her, in the form of Raelle.

Raelle, who smiles and leans in to kiss Scylla again. It's the kind of kiss that starts off slow and chaste and grows more heated as they go. 

Scylla sweeps her tongue along Raelle's bottom lip and feels Raelle push more into the kiss, her mouth parting just so. When they separate, their breathing sounds so loud in the new silence, and Scylla has the strangest desire suddenly to see her own face, to be able to know the expression on it. To see herself through Raelle's eyes.

And then Raelle's fingers thread through her hair, and, gripping Scylla's head, pulling her in gently to kiss again and again and again until Scylla's heady with need.

"Scylla," Raelle whispers, in a tone caught between desperate lust and gentle sweetness.

She kisses along the edge of Scylla's jaw, down the slope of Scylla's neck. She continues a trail of dry kisses, feather-light, along Scylla's collarbone, her hands on Scylla's waist, holding her still. 

When she murmurs Scylla's name again, it's against Scylla's ear; it makes Scylla shiver. 

Scylla's hands grip Raelle's shirt, wanting to hold her and press their bodies together. Raelle catches one of them; she moves Scylla's palm to her cheek, cradling it. And then she kisses the tips of Scylla's fingers, one by one by one, and Scylla thinks she's never felt anything so lovely before.

Raelle helps Scylla rid herself of her remaining clothing, undoing the clasp of her bra, tugging down Scylla's uniform trousers and underwear in the same motion. She draws them, agonizingly slowly, down the length of Scylla's legs until Scylla kicks them off, laughing. Raelle, still clothed, hovers above her on hands and knees. She kissed Scylla again, rougher this time. Scylla groans as one of Raelle's hands goes to her breast, cupping it, her thumb brushing lightly over her nipple. Scylla arches up encouragingly. 

But then Raelle pulls away. 

" _Raelle_ ," Scylla pleads, heart racing, every muscle tense.

Raelle quiets her with a kiss. Scylla watches as Raelle undresses herself quickly, tossing her shirt and sports bra aside, shucking off her trousers. Scylla sits up a little, leans forward to cup Raelle through her underpants, pleased at the dampness she finds. She hooks her fingers into the elastic waistband, tugging impatiently.

When Raelle falls against Scylla again, pressing their bodies together, Scylla tangles her hands in Raelle's hair and brings their mouths together in a rough, needy kiss. Raelle's knee presses against her and she wraps a leg around Raelle's waist, trying to pull her in even closer. Raelle's hand snakes between their bodies, fingers sliding against Scylla purposefully. She bends her head and takes one of Scylla's nipples in her mouth, sucking on it slowly, kneading it with her tongue. Scylla cries out, one hand clutching a fistful of sheets, the other gripping Raelle's shoulder.

Afterwards, when Scylla's still trying to catch her breath, body still tingling from the work of Raelle's fingers, Raelle drops her head and kisses Scylla — easy, languid, nothing but sweetness. Scylla feels lighter than air. She thinks she could float away. She finds Raelle's hand, intertwining their fingers, tethering herself. 

"I want to —" she starts, still out of breath, and Raelle doesn't say a word, she just pulls Scylla on top of her, and guides one of Scylla's hands between her legs. 

Scylla bends her head and kisses the space between Raelle's breasts, kisses up to the hollow of her throat. Raelle groans as Scylla slides her fingers into her.

They move together on the bed quietly. Scylla's movements never slow, her thumb pressed firm to Raelle's clit. She watches Raelle's face: the slowly blooming blush in her cheeks; the way her eyebrows knit in concentration; the way Raelle bites her lip. It's beautiful, Scylla thinks, to see Raelle like this, flushed and sweaty and panting. She sucks on a spot on Raelle's neck until blood rises to the surface, until she feels Raelle tensing expectantly beneath her.

Scylla pulls her hand away; Raelle whimpers in frustration. 

"Scyl, _please_."

Scylla kisses Raelle with a grin. She likes being able to tease Raelle in return. "Patience."

She drags her tongue down along the flat plane of Raelle's stomach, kisses the inside of Raelle's thigh and tastes her. Raelle runs her fingers through Scylla's hair, moaning softly. Raelle says Scylla's name again and again, against Scylla's lips. Like Work — or a prayer. 

Later, spent and exhausted, Raelle loops her arms around Scylla's neck as Scylla peppers Raelle's face with tiny kisses. Raelle sighs contentedly; Scylla can feel the curve of Raelle's smile as she kisses Scylla's neck and shoulders. 

Scylla feels suddenly faint with love. She can't remember the last time she's felt like this — if she's ever felt like this at all, really — as she rolls off to lie beside Raelle, curling against her, thrilled at how tightly Raelle embraces her. Scylla's never longed to be so desperately close to someone, always. Not until now.

It's a dangerous thing. It's a red light flashing _warning!_.

 _Don't forget the mission_ , she tells herself. _Don't forget why you're really here. What this really means._

She's meant to keep Raelle close to her. She's supposed to make sure Raelle trusts her completely. That's exactly what she's been doing. Everything that she does — even this, lying in Raelle's arms while Raelle nuzzles sleepily against her — is all part of the larger plan. 

(she's getting good at finding excuses for everything she does now.)

*

Porter arrives at Fort Salem, and everything goes to shit. Scylla's really beginning to believe that the forces of Beltane have it out for her specifically. 

She blows him off when he confronts her, but he's doggedly persistent. Unfortunately. It seems he's changed as much as she has. She remembers him being sweeter. But that was a long time ago. Now he's unrecognizable. He's turned traitor, happy to play lapdog to Witch Father and Sarah Alder and the rest of the military.

_I felt like it was the right thing to do._

His words make her sick.

Finding Raelle helps to extinguish the flames of anger that Porter's ignited. When she wraps her arms around Raelle, breathing in the scent of pine and commissary issue soap, she feels grounded. Gorgeous, tenderhearted Raelle, who looks genuinely sorry when Scylla opens up about her parents' deaths and her desire for justice. It's almost enough for Scylla to want to tell Raelle everything, to confess the whole sorry story of her life.

Almost.

*

There's no joy in killing Porter. How could there be? They shared something, years ago. A flickering moment of calm and understanding.

But he pushes and pushes and doesn't stop. The animal inside of her has no choice: it bites back.

*

Stupid, stupid Raelle. She's too heroic for her own good and she doesn't even realize it. 

Scylla paces across the street from the infirmary, hidden behind a large willow tree. She waits and watches and desperately hopes that Raelle will be okay. She knows the Spree will kill her if anything happens to Raelle, but it's the furthest thought from her mind right now. She wants Raelle to be okay for her own, selfish sake. She can't bear the thought that she's hurt Raelle, however unintentionally.

The truth is, she cares about Raelle more than her own life. 

The realization is terrible. And thrilling.

*

"Not such a terrible Beltane after all," Raelle says, later, when they've finished making love. She smiles against Scylla's shoulder.

She nestles further into Raelle's embrace, still thinking about the things Raelle said to her earlier that morning, awash in golden sunlight hues. How she stood and cupped Scylla's face in her hands and promised to always be with her. Scylla knows Raelle means it. She can feel it in the way Raelle kisses her. The way Raelle touches her.

A few long moments pass before Raelle sits up, stretching. "I should go shower before training." Then, with a playful smirk. "Want to come?"

The showers are blissfully empty.

They slip into the stall at the very end. Scylla sighs as the hot water washes over them. When Raelle's fingers work shampoo into her hair, it feels oddly intimate. 

Later, water dripping off lips, noses, fingertips, and eyelashes, Scylla puts her palm flat against Raelle's cheek and presses their mouths together. Raelle lets out a nearly inaudible sigh, bringing their bodies together. Scylla thinks of kissing Raelle in the rain, their clothes soaked through and clinging. 

Raelle's hands, gentle but firm, move in all the ways that undo her. Even the moments that move in slow motion are too fast for Scylla; she wants to remember all of this. It's life and death and everything in between, when Raelle makes her see stars and fireworks behind her eyelids.

Scylla would like to fashion this into something secret, something untold. It isn't right for Raelle to kiss her so openly on campus; she wants to be pinned to the wall and kissed in the shadows, in secret, hard enough to leave her breathless. It's not enough as they are right now, all soft and gentle and patient. They should be rough and fierce and needy. Scylla wants to be able to _see_ the way Raelle bruises her, dark purple and gray marks on her skin, instead of just feeling it.

Because that's what it feels like when Raelle looks at her — like falling from a great height. 

She's pretty sure that Raelle feels the same way, and maybe if they both feel like this, if they can just reach for each others' hands in silence, lace their fingers together, maybe there isn't a need for words.

_Love._

What a terrifyingly small word for feelings so enormous.

*

Willa gives her a choice. Obey orders, or suffer the consequences.

Scylla knows that Willa is a woman of her word. She knows the minute she chooses to dance with Raelle that there is no turning back. The clock striking six o'clock only helps to bring reality into sharp focus. She feels the weight of it on her shoulders, in the pit of her stomach: this is the end.

But how could she ever choose any differently?

Raelle — it's always been her, from that very first moment. Her infectious smile. The way she laughed. Her eyes, bright silver with Salva. Her mouth against Scylla's mouth, their bodies pressed together. The night everything ended and began anew.

(life becomes death, which becomes life again.)

(over and over.)

"I love you," she says simply, against Raelle's ear. 

She's glad she got the chance to say at least that.

Even if only once.

**Author's Note:**

> my unending gratitude to [MossGarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MossGarden), [Cailean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cailean) and [here4rizzles](http://www.tumblr.com/here4rizzles) for being impossibly patient and helpful.


End file.
